The Locket
by angelically-devilish
Summary: HarryHermione - Deep in the forest, Hermione seethes over Ron's sudden departure. The locket does nothing to ebb the waves of rage that push her into the arms of the one man she had always trusted... **NOT FOR THE ROMANTIC**


_**A/N:** As I'm sure most of you are aware, this is not a pairing I ship. I was just...inspired._

_ALSO - this has some questionable material in it. My mind went a bit dark. If that is not your thing, don't read. If it's not your thing and you decide to read,_ **don't bitch to me about it. **_You have been warned._

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><p><strong>The Locket<strong>

Hermione Granger sat huddled in the bitter cold, gazing unseeingly into the inky black of the night. A small fire crackled and popped in front of her, though it did very little by way of warmth and comfort. Not that expected the warmth and comfort she needed to come from the burning embers in front of her. Months of living in the deep recesses of civilization had hardened her to such luxurious emotions.

The quiet static of the wireless within the tent informed her that her companion in the communing with nature - the illustrious Harry Potter - was having as much trouble as she adjusting to their new-found solitude. The hum of the wireless brought into start clarity the situation they were in and her heart hurt as she relived, over and over, the seconds that had turned the Golden Trio into the somewhat diminished Golden Duo.

Bloody Ronald Weasley.

It had seemed so easy for the short-tempered redhead to simply disappear from their lives; from _her_ life. She knew Ron never thought things through, but just _abandoning_ them in their time of need because of his own stupid, selfish, _petty_ grievances...well, if she had been a lesser woman, it would have destroyed her.

But she was not a lesser woman.

Turning the locket that sat around her neck absently in her fingers, she stared out into space. She had spent her days buried in books with Harry, theorizing and hypothesizing and all the while knowing that neither of them had the slightest clue where to go or what to do. Her nights were spent avoiding the pain in her heart and trying to hold back the tears that stung her eyes.

Dumbledore had always said that love was the most powerful magic in the world.

He could have warned her of its destructive power as well.

Blinking away more tears that threatened to surface, Hermione let herself concentrate on her anger. Anger at Dumbledore for not fully preparing them for the task at hand. Anger at Snape for killing Dumbledore before he got the _chance_ to prepare them. Anger at Ron for losing faith so quickly; for simply deserting them because he was too weak, too cowardly, too _stupid_ to offer anything but more problems.

Anger at herself for _ever_ putting so much faith, trust and loyalty into three men who didn't deserve it.

As the wireless played on, Hermione let her rage wrap around her, sliding over her like a cloak of pure mink fur. Anger was not a luxurious emotion like warmth and comfort; anger was a _necessary_ emotion. An emotion that spurred her forward, onto her feet, into the cosy tent, and toward the only man who seemed - at that moment - to deserve her faith, trust and loyalty.

Harry was looking wistfully at the Marauders' Map, eyes glued to one spot. She knew what - or rather, _who_ - he was looking at.

She admired him for his devotion.

She admired him for his fidelity.

She watched him, waiting for him to notice her. The locket seemed warm against her skin. She could feel the anger coursing through her veins. Why did other women find men who proved worthy while she, smart and brave and kind, got stuck with one that proved to her just how foolish the concept of love really was?

It wasn't right.

It wasn't fair.

And if she couldn't have it, then neither could anyone else.

"Hermione?" Harry asked, his green eyes filled with concern as he saw her standing there, silent. "You alright?"

"Yes," she replied, and the voice that spoke wasn't a voice she recognized. It was softer, huskier and filled with a womanly promise of fulfilled desires.

Harry's brow furrowed.

"You seem...different."

"Do I?" she asked softly.

"Yes."

They looked at each other in silence for a moment before Hermione nodded at the map.

"Missing Ginny, I see," she said, her body moving to sit on the edge of his bed. The delicious rage simmered merrily within her. _'Good ol' Ginny,'_ she thought. _'A woman with beauty, brains, the perfect boyfriend and a pure bloodline. She has it all.'_

_'How incredibly unfair,'_ Hermione added darkly to herself.

"Yes, I...I suppose I do miss her," Harry replied, putting the map away. "Though, to be honest, I think what I miss most is just...holding someone. Holding them and never wanting to let them go."

"I wouldn't know," Hermione heard herself say bitterly. "I've never been held like that."

Harry said nothing and she looked at him.

"Could you pretend with me, Harry?" she asked, allowing a tear to fall down her cheek as the flames of injustice burned within her. "Could you hold me as if I was Ginny, so I can pretend I mean something to someone?"

Harry's eyes softened.

"You _do_ mean something, 'Mione. I know Ron..."

"Don't say his name," she begged, the anger swelling and the tears hot as she blinked them back. "It wasn't enough. _I_ wasn't enough."

Harry smiled slightly.

"Come here," he said, pulling the blanket back so she could join him. She kicked her shoes off and slid in next to him, triumph and glee enveloping her just as his strong arms did.

"You mean something, 'Mione," he whispered in her ear and she allowed herself a small smile as he charmed the lights out.

She remained awake for an hour or two, feeling Harry's warm breath on her neck as he slept. His body was warm, muscle and sinew moulding to her feminine curves. Her rage had ebbed, her anger controlled as malevolent thoughts of pure carnal pleasure and the chance to exact a malicious form of revenge started to stir.

She could hurt Ron, the arse, and Ginny, the perfect one, both at the same time and it would be glorious.

With careful, silent determination, she feigned a sleeping restlessness. Her body moved softly and subtly against his. She could feel his natural response to her, his arms tightening slightly around her as she turned, pretending her dreams had caused the movement.

Their lips were mere millimetres apart. She could feel his quickened breath upon her skin. She curled into him, hips bumping his and a careless hand grazing the semi-hard muscle separated from her by only a thin layer of cotton. She felt his deep intake of air and cool victory filled her as his arms tightened around her even more.

She let her eyes flutter open, the very picture of innocence.

He was watching her.

"Harry," she whispered with a small smile.

"'Mione...I..."

But she didn't allow him to protest as she pressed her lips to his. He groaned but he did not pull away. She smirked, knowing she had won. She didn't care by what means, or the consequences to the actions. She would have this revenge and she would relish every moment.

Running her hands through his hair, she felt his fingers slide up her shirt. She dispatched of it quickly, returning to his lips as heat ran through her body. Anger, bitterness and lust drove her, cheering her as she pushed him onto his back and straddled his body. Her skin hummed as he explored her curves, unclasping her bra and palming her breasts as she bucked slightly against his hardened member.

With a dexterity she didn't know she possessed, she wriggled out of the rest of her clothes, her lips still locked to his so as to avoid speaking. She didn't need words. She needed action. She needed friction. She needed _chaos_. As the locket throbbed against her chest, she pushed aside the last boundary between them before sinking herself upon him.

He moaned against her lips as she started to move. Her hips seemed to be directed by some primal urge within her, because she had never behaved this way before. Her body moved wantonly, and as she finally pulled away from his lips to sit up, she felt his fingers grip her hips, trying to slow her down as he careened toward his peak.

But she would not listen. She leaned back, bouncing and twisting her hips as he cried out. And she laughed, the sound cold and conniving and foreign as she gripped the locket, tugging it slightly as she moved faster and harder, her body exploding in wild ecstasy. The pleasure she took was not physical. She had exacted the revenge she had desperately needed and now it was coursing through her body, hot and untamed...

Suddenly, she felt the locket get yanked from her throat.

She blinked.

She was outside. She was fully dressed, and cold, sitting by the fire. Harry stood in front of her, sleep-tousled but thoroughly concerned. He held the locket in his hand, and she knew he must have pulled it from her neck. She blinked again, sudden confusion gripping her.

"Wha...what happened?" she asked.

"I dunno," he replied, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and kneeling in front of her. "I woke up to the sound of you...of you _laughing_. Only, it wasn't _your_ laughter, even though it was coming from you. It was this hollow, icy laughter. I came out here and you were rocking back and forth, holding the locket and just...just laughing. It was unnerving."

Hermione looked from his kind green eyes to the locket. It gleamed a winking gold. She swallowed hard, running her hand through her hair. She remembered everything. She could still feel the remnants of anger sliding over her skin.

It had all felt so real.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to scare you."

He shook his head.

"It's alright," he replied. "Go get some sleep. I'll keep hold of the locket tonight."

As she walked to the tent, she turned to see Harry slip the seemingly-harmless piece of jewellery around his neck. She took a deep breath, wondering how the locket's evil would manifest itself in Harry. She shuddered as she closed the tent flap behind her. She hoped he would have better luck with it than she did.

Making her way to her bed, she did not notice the bra that sat, partially concealed, under Harry's bed. Nor did she see, as she slipped into her pyjamas and into bed, the smattering of bruises - just the size of the pad of a finger - on her hips.

She fell asleep, her mind whirling in spite of itself with pleasant memories of Ron, her vengeful wrath buried in her subconscious until the next time she wore the locket.

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><p>Outside, Harry's eyes gleamed gold as he examined the necklace.<p>

His heart had only just stopped racing from their frantic coupling as he had watched Hermione wordlessly dress and return outside.

Putting the locket underneath his shirt, he vowed to himself to never tell her what the locket did to her.

No matter how many times it had happened.

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><p><em>Thanks for reading.<em>

_You can't say I didn't warn you..._


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